


Ghosts That Linger

by Itsagrifthing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Season 15, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 23:33:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11390724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsagrifthing/pseuds/Itsagrifthing
Summary: Wash is forced to finally confront Donut, after all these years.





	Ghosts That Linger

Wash was forced to confront Donut the third day after being dropped off on the moon. 

Between the whole nonsense with the Director, crash-landing in the middle of nowhere, getting caught up in the middle of a bogus civil war, fucking  _ mercenaries,  _ Church--  _ Epsilon-- _ dying, and basically the whole shit storm that was Chorus, there was just never any time to talk to the strange, pink, homosexual enigma that was Donut. 

He still felt like shit, however, every time he looked at the carefree trooper, excitedly yapping about chantilly lace, or sunbathing out on the beach. He still felt like shit because there was still a scar on Donut’s torso, a scar that  _ he  _ made. His fault. 

Of course, there was that one time where they were both cell mates at the Fed’s base. Wash had helped Donut sneak away from Locus to look for Doc-- and you would  _ think  _ that would be the perfect to discuss the metaphorical elephant in the room… but Wash was particularly tense during that time, and he could barely get the guy to shut up about his lotions, so the topic didn’t exactly come up. And Wash probably didn’t help his case every time he snapped at Donut to  _ shut the fuck up and get your ass under cover before Locus finds us.  _

Which means that he finally had to meet his reckoning on the sun-baked beach of a far-off moon while the roar of dinosaurs sounded in the background.

 

“Donut!” Wash yelled in frustration, sprinting up to the oblivious soldier-- _ ex _ -soldier-- lying facedown on a towel near the water. “Where’s your armor?!” 

The guy merely lowered his sunglasses and peeked out over the top of them. “Oh, hey Wash! Do you want to join me?” he said in that annoying, high-pitched voice.

“ _ Join  _ you?!” Wash gritted, wildly looking over his shoulder and gripping his rifle. “We’re being attacked by freaking  _ dinosaurs  _ and you want me to sunbathe with you?!” Right on cue, the ground shook and a roar echoed out over the island. 

Donut sighed, as though  _ Wash _ were the incompetent one. “Yes, Wash. Sunbathe. De-stress. You know, you shouldn’t worry about the silly little things all the time. It’ll give you wrinkles!” 

“ _ Silly little things?!”  _

“I’m halfway through my session,” Donut continued. “You should lie down! I think I’ve got an extra towel here somewhere…” 

He rolled over onto his back, his torso so plainly exposed, and Wash couldn’t help but wince as the scar hit him like the blinding sun. 

He took a deep breath. If there was anything he learned during his time with the Reds and the Blues, it’s that direct orders don’t do a single goddamn thing. He had to speak calmly and rationally-- though it was hard keeping his patience. 

“Donut, look. Right now, there are dinosaurs attacking the bases. Dinosaurs. _Attacking_. We don’t have time to sunbathe.” 

Donut hesitated, then sighed. “ _ Alright _ , fine. I guess you’ll all just have to put up with my half-tanned backside for a little while.” 

Wash exhaled in relief. 

“But,” Donut added. “You have to promise to sunbathe with me once we take care of the dinosaurs.” 

Wash sputtered. 

“Sunbathe?! I don’t-- no way. Not happening.” He refused to look at Donut’s perfected pouting face, complete with a wobbly lip and great big puppy eyes. “Absolutely not.” He turned to go, groaning as he saw the fires raging in the distance, and a jeep flying through the air, carrying the Reds. 

But he could feel Donut’s disappointed stare piercing through his armor and burning a massive hole into Wash’s guilt-ridden brain. 

He sighed. 

“OKAY, fine. Just put some armor on already. If we wait any longer, the rest of the Reds are going to be eaten.” 

Donut lit up, smiling from ear to ear. As he leaped to his feet and rolled up his towel, he chatted happily. 

“You know, I’m pretty sure it’s technically ironic to be eaten as food.”

“What? No it’s not.” 

“Of course it is!” 

“... Let’s just go. We’ll discuss it later.” 

 

And that’s why, a few weeks later, after a terrifying re-living of  _ Jurassic Park,  _ Sarge going rogue and building a massive army of robots, a mishap in which Grif was almost eaten, an epic robot-dinosaur fight (which made Wash’s inner movie-nerd self nearly cry with joy) and a pathetic-yet-tear-jerking funeral for Caboose’s dinosaur friends, Wash found himself back on the beach, being beckoned to by a flamboyant sim trooper he had shot and almost killed once before. 

“Oh heeyy, Wash,” Donut said in that god-awful, cheery sing-song voice as Wash reluctantly approached him. “How ya doing?” 

Wash sighed. “Great.” 

“Here to get your tan on?”  

_ Just an hour,  _ Wash told himself.  _ Just last an hour.  _ Donut began rummaging through his almost overflowing bag, tossing out small canisters and towels and various objects Wash really did  _ not  _ want to know the purpose of. 

“Catch!” Donut tossed him a bottle of sunscreen over his shoulder. Wash’s reflexes took over, first bringing his hands up to protect his face, then dropping them lower and letting the bottle fall neatly into the palms of his hands. 

“Good throw,” Wash said, surprised, though he shouldn’t be-- he had seen Donut toss grenades on the battlefield before. The skill amazed him every time. After seeing Caboose and Doc (AKA the first and second worst throwers ever. Of all time), he found himself impressed by Donut. Though odd, the guy certainly had talent, and Wash would be shocked if Donut couldn’t at least qualify as a grenade specialist for some kind of program in the UNSC-- or even Freelancer. There were definitely worse Freelancers than him. 

Donut jumped to his feet, startling Wash out of his reverie. 

“Take off your shirt, Mister,” Donut commanded. 

Wash flushed. “Excuse me?” he said, taken aback. 

“Take off your shirt!” Donut repeated, yanking the sunscreen out of Wash’s hands. “I’ll do your back!” 

“Oh. Uh, thanks Donut.” Wash could barely keep his eyes from flicking down to Donut’s abdomen, where the scar awaited him. He hesitated, replaying the memory over in his mind. The small noise that escaped his mouth as he fell to the ground, the ding of the bullet that pierced straight through him and hit the jeep behind him, Simmons’ shocked ‘Donut?’ and following cries as Wash stood and looked mercilessly on-- 

Wash shook his head.

“Look, you know what? This was a bad idea. I should really go…” Wash began to back up, his feet slipping in the sand. Donut’s smile fell a little, and Wash cursed himself. 

“But…” he started, his eyes following Wash’s gaze to the red mark on his skin. “Oh.” 

It was a few seconds pause that came after that small ‘oh’, but it felt like years to Wash.  _ Just add that to the list of things I’ve fucked up,  _ Wash thought bitterly.  _ Another thing to bite me in the ass later on.  _ He wouldn’t blame Donut if he hated him by now. Hell, he would hate  _ himself  _ by now, and sure wouldn’t be inviting him to sunbathe by this point. 

But then Donut snorted, and his cheery, care-free grin was back. He waved his hand dismissively. 

“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, silly! I can just cover it up with some concealer if I wanted to. Besides, you’re not getting out of tanning that easily! Have you even  _ looked  _ in a mirror? You look like a snowman! A snowman! On an island!” 

Wash blinked. 

“I--” Donut gestured impatiently. 

“Now come here, we’re going to miss the best part of the day!” 

Wash blinked again. 

“Well? Come on!” Donut waved the bottle almost threateningly, and Wash hastily pulled his shirt over his head before the guy takes out an eye or something. 

“Look--”

“Alright, turn around. I’ll do my back, and you do mine next.” 

“Donut--” 

“Shh! Just turn around.” Wash hesitantly turned, exposing his back to Donut. His breathing grew more and more rapid as he heard the cap of the bottle open.  _ I shot him,  _ a small part of Wash’s mind said desperately.  _ He’s going to hurt me, he’s going to stab me in the back, he’s going to fuck with my implants--  _ and at the very least,  _ he’s going to see all of my scars.  _

There was a reason Wash was so pale. He barely ever took his armor, let alone his shirt. The only time he was ever truly naked was when he was alone. All those years in Freelancer really fucked up his trust issues and his self esteem. He couldn’t see, but he knew that his bare back was riddled with scars and freckles and bruises and ugly, ugly marks. He had a few square inches of nothing  _ but  _ scars on his neck, outlining his implants-- a gift from the time he went nuts after Epsilon. He couldn’t remember exactly what had happened, but he was told he tried to dig the implants out with his bare hands. 

If Wash ever tried to count his scars, it would probably take him about a week. He didn’t want anyone to see just exactly how much of a mess he actually was. 

So that’s why he was so tense when he heard sunscreen being squeezed out of the bottle. He berated himself.  _ This is Donut,  _ Wash thought.  _ He wouldn’t hurt me.  _

_ Yes he would,  _ a part of himself argued.  _ Of course he would. You shot him, remember? Why  _ wouldn’t _ he take advantage of your lowered guard?  _

_ Maybe I should let him…  _ Wash thought briefly.  _ God knows I deserve it.  _

But another part, a part very small and very deep inside him gave Wash the real reason why he should let Donut see his back. 

_ I trust him.  _

Wash tightened briefly when the cool gel touched his back, catching his breath. 

But there was no pain. Instead, gentle hands rubbed the lotion into his back, smearing it all over his scars, over his shoulders, over his neck. There was no hesitation, no pity, no reluctance. It felt… nice. Wash couldn’t remember the last time someone touched his back. Probably before Freelancer. 

And then Donut was done, and it was Wash’s turn. 

He awkwardly rubbed the lotion over Donut’s back, making to sure to be as deliberate as Donut was-- he couldn’t repay him by letting him get burned. And he was pretty sure putting on sunscreen wasn’t as big a deal for Donut as it was for him. 

But his fingers still faltered as they got nearer to the exit wound. 

Donut could feel it too. He sighed and turned. 

“Wash--”

“Donut, look, I--” 

“No, Wash,” Donut interrupted. Wash paused, startled at the hardness in Donut’s voice. “You don’t have to worry about what you did. It’s okay, alright? Don’t worry about it.” 

Wash shifted his eyes away, a lump forming in his throat. 

“Yeah…” he muttered. Donut sighed again, and grabbed Wash’s wrist. “What--?” 

Donut firmly pulled his hand in, and let it rest on his chest, over his heart. Wash instinctively pulled back, but Donut didn’t let go. 

“Feel that,” he said, and Wash forced himself to relax. “Feel it. Feel the heartbeat?” 

Wash felt it. It was strong and rhythmic. Healthy. 

“You feel it?” Wash nodded and took a shaky breath. “This heartbeat… it means I’m alive. Do you understand? Alive.” 

Wash nodded mutely again. He was beginning to feel calmer as he felt the steady beat. Alive. Strong. Alive. He brought his eyes up to meet Donut’s, surprised… but also not surprised to see the strength and fire in them. He breathed out, matching pace with Donut. His own heartbeat slowed. 

Donut dragged his hand lower until it rested on top of the wound. Wash tried to yank his hand back, as if he were burned, but Donut held tight and forced his fingers to splay over the scar. 

“Wash,” Donut said, firmly yet gently. “Feel this? The wound is healed.” 

Wash nodded again, more willingly this time. He felt the skin around the wound. He had plenty of experience with scars, and this one  _ was  _ healing. The skin was soft and tight. There wasn’t any crusting, or chipping, or swelling, or anything he expected to feel. It was just a mark now. Healed. 

Wash met Donut’s eyes again and held his gaze. Donut opened his mouth. 

“I. Am. Alive,” he said deliberately. “And I forgive you.” 

Then he let go of Wash’s hand. 

 

 

Wash agreed to stick around to sunbathe. It was nicer than he expected, relaxing even. He was prepared to deal with gay innuendos and long conversations about the best kind of skin cream to use, or even references to the latest issue of  _ Beauty Today--  _ but actually, Donut was kind of… cool (though he did make one very suggestive, and very confusing comment about Wash and Tucker’s relationship). Wash could see another side of him, a side he didn’t see very often. Or… at all. 

They talked a bit about what he did before the military, and Wash brought up his skill with tossing things. Donut laughed it off, but Wash could tell there was a story about it in his head somewhere. 

After a while, they stopped talking about things, and Wash even fell asleep for the first time ever out of the base and out of his armor. 

He fell asleep to the cool breeze and the warm sun. He fell asleep to the soothing sound of the ocean. He fell asleep… feeling safe.

 

Until: 

“What. The. Fuck.” 

Wash sprang up to his feet, blinking groggily and brushing sand out of his hair. Big brown eyes blinked down at him, shocked, confused and desperately trying to find the whole situation funny. 

“Tucker!” Wash exclaimed, startled. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding sun, and looked around, dazed. He coughed, the smell of smoke filling his lungs. 

“Man, this is bullshit. I’ve been firefighting and shit, pulling things out of our base and saving all of Caboose’s fucking  _ coloring pages,  _ while you been… what?  _ Tanning?!”  _

Wash shook his head, slowly getting back into his old, uptight self. “Hang on, what? Firefighting?” 

Tucker huffed. “Yeah, man. Fucking Donut burned down our bases and shit.” 

All memories of the past few hours, all the progress, all the relaxing that he did, it was all gone in a resounding  _ snap,  _ and Wash began to wonder just if he was ever going to stop babysitting a bunch of color-coded idiots for one goddamn second. 

But he could hear Caboose babbling in the background, as Grif complained about his food and Simmons ran around screaming. He could hear Carolina shouting orders, could hear Sarge shouting a battle cry, could hear the smoke alarm ringing, and all the stress and anger rose bubbled right back up in Wash. 

“Donut. Did.  _ WHAT?!”  _

 

It was going to be a long retirement. 


End file.
